


Untold, Retold

by Autumn_Llleaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: All Kinds of Genres, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage (mostly), Blindness, Canon Compliant, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friends With Benefits, Heavy Angst, Hourglass Plot, Love Letters, Pre-Canon, Puppy Love, Rare Pairings, Romantic Fluff, Step-parents, Wargs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Llleaves/pseuds/Autumn_Llleaves
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots about the less popular pairings.





	1. The Letter Carried by the Shot Raven (Stannis/Selyse)

**Author's Note:**

> Also published on my Ficbook account.

My lord husband,

I didn’t want to write this, but, knowing you… I don’t think you’ll agree to the black. So, in all likelihood, we won’t meet again. I was – hurriedly, and only thanks to  ~~the northern bastard’s~~ Jon Snow’s protection – wed to Lord Gyrfin Graves of Acquilfort, a small place in the middle of nowhere. He’s close on ninety, gone completely soft in the head and barely understands who I am, but at least the children and I can live peacefully. The old man likes the kids, too – his granddaughter died long ago and the grandson was killed at Blackwater, and I think he takes Shireen and Steffon for them. 

You know well that for a good part of our married life my feelings for you have been about as warm as my feelings now for Lord Gyrfin. I never hated you, but suffered your presence with difficulty. I can almost see your face now – oh, don’t grind your teeth, I know just as well that you, too, barely tolerated me. At least in that respect we’ve always been in agreement and never kept it from one another.

Only in the North, as this winter began, you started to change. After Jon Snow was betrayed, you were one of the few people who could somehow govern in that chaos. When you threw the Boltons out of Winterfell, I was ever so proud – finally people were respecting you! And  ~~you didn’t look as if you hated this world anymore~~ it was better for you as well, I could see it in your eyes when the northmen came to you with words of true support. If only we had something to live on in that Winterfell…

Do you remember how we handed and sent our last supplies to the northern lords? I brought the Florent jewels (I had taken them all the way from Dragonstone), so that the ones who lived close to the borders could buy something in the Vale or Braavos. Then you looked at me and said: “At the very least, no feasting Tyrells at the walls today.” Perhaps you have forgotten it already – but I remember. You might have meant something else, but I like to think you tried to cheer me up.

And remember how we learned that Melisandre brought Jon Snow back to life? He arrived at Winterfell, and the northmen nearly fainted with joy – they wanted one of theirs, and Snow was Stark’s son after all (as we were sure back then), even if a bastard one. And he thanked you so much for your help with the return of Winterfell, and you thanked me for my support.

I thought you’ll be having your times alone with Melisandre again, but for some reason she had changed her mind about Azor Ahai and turned all her attention to Snow. Strangely, I was glad about it. Melisandre now spoke less of burnings and seemed to have lost her confidence in general. Has Snow revealed to her some mysteries after she revived him?

On the day when a caravan arrived from the Vale, bringing Lady Sansa absolutely out of the blue, I realized we were now the odd ones in the North. Yes, the lords respected you, but now that there were Starks in Winterfell they looked at us as at some intruders.

Mayhaps you have forgotten that evening. When you sat by the fire and told me so bitterly: “I’m so tired of being a king whom nobody in the country needs!” Or were you speaking to yourself, not to me, believing yourself to be alone? Whatever the case, I honestly don’t know what made me come close, hug your shoulders and say that Shireen and I needed you.  ~~I have to confess, though, that an hour earlier I had been frozen to the bone and drank some ale, but I don’t regret it.~~

Of course, you  ~~snarled~~ answered that I’m bound to you by duty and that it’s nothing strange. Upon my word, I was so happy to hear you speak in your usual manner and not in that dull hopeless voice that I heard before that!

~~But still, who could have thought that in some tiny Winterfell room, in the midst of winter and war, for the first time in more than ten years of marriage, I’ll willingly make love to my husband and get my pleasure? They say that if a woman isn’t satisfied she can’t beget a son. Now that our Steffon was born nine months after that night, I don’t think it such a foolish idea anymore.~~

I was so happy, so madly happy when Melisandre cleaned the newborn baby and smilingly announced: “A boy, a healthy boy, Selyse!” This is how our dream came true: without calculating the proper time for conception, without a crowd of midwives with their whispered spells, without burning anyone…

He is already serious and thoughtful, like you. Your chin, your eyes, your hereditary black hair – only the ears are mine, the eternal fox ears of the Florents. 

For him (and Shireen), only for their sakes did I agree to part with you when this new mad queen came here. And if years ago her own infant nephew and niece hadn’t been brutally murdered during the Sack, I don’t know if she would have spared our children. Well, as it is, she had spared us, merely got us exiled into the dustiest corner of the Reach. 

~~Please, spit on your dim principles for once and agree to the Wall! I’ll visit you, you can think of it as of duty if it sounds better for you, but don’t leave me alone! We’ve already been happy in the North – maybe it’s our fate? Both you and I are harsh and unfriendly and cold. Perhaps it is so, but we can get each other warm.~~

Farewell, my lord, oh, how hard it is to write it, and thank you for everything. I won’t forget you, Steffon – I swear it – shall grow up listening to the tales about his father. Who knows? Perhaps in twenty years or so the stag will get revenge on the dragon once again. 

~~Sometimes we understand too late that~~

Shireen thinks you were killed in battle, I haven’t told her the whole truth. She’ll go to the septry, and a septa doesn’t need to know the truth of your execution. 

I remain

your lady wife

Selyse Baratheon,

Lady of Dragonstone. 

(Yes, I know our marriage was annulled, but this Graves has long forgotten what is duty, what is marriage and what’s going on in the world, so please can I do without signing his name?)

~~Stannis, I beg you, bend the knee to that foolish girl, don’t leave me, I lo~~


	2. The Ice Rose (Willas/Sansa)

_Well, at least she’s not Lady Hayford,_ was the first thought that came to his mind. Lately he has been offered a splendid choice of brides – each one younger than the other – and he was afraid it might come down to the four-year-old widow Ermesande. 

But everything ended relatively well. Shireen Baratheon voluntarily went to the septry before her flowering, and it put a stop to any talk of marrying her. The former princess wasn’t an option either – Myrcella now carried the name of Waters, and had it not been for her kind dwarf uncle, she could have been a commoner with no rights. But even though Lord Tyrion took in his last living relative, there couldn’t be any discussion of her marrying into a Great House.

The same Lord Tyrion found his wife. Found her in the Vale – and declared the marriage invalid in several days. Everyone was shocked: what idiot could let go of such a beauty, and a Stark at that? They didn’t voice their shock, though – the topic of marriage had somehow become so painful for Tyrion after his escape from King’s Landing that he grew furious if anyone even tried to raise it with him. No one wanted the new King’s Hand to grow furious.

Anyway, Sansa Stark didn’t, of course, stay a maid very long. As Lord Mace learned of the annulment of her wedlock with the dwarf, he immediately reminded Willas that the latter had once been nearly married to her, the plans were crashed at the last moment – why not correct the mistake?

It was then that Willas agreed and noted to himself that it hadn’t come to Lady Hayford.

Before the bride’s arrival he recalled what he knew of her from the letters of Margaery and Grandma. Margaery chose softer words than the Queen of Thorns, but they agreed on the main points: the girl was beautiful, very well-mannered, even though naturally naive, despite all she had been through.  _She’s also head over ears in love with Loras_ , wrote Grandma.  _Nearly burst into tears when I told her which of you she’ll be marrying. But talk more with her of your books, and she’ll get better. She has potential._

The Lady Sansa who came to the Reach didn’t look much like the naive little girl Willas had imagined back then. A tall and stately red-haired beauty with ice blue eyes and a cold smile, she could pass for a southerner from afar but was really a Stark through and through. 

 _I see,_ Willas thought gloomily.  _Maybe at thirteen she was suitable for me, but now her place is there, in their frozen wilderness._ No, he liked reading about the North, many legends were among his favorites – but he read it all and was very glad that he, thankfully, didn’t live or intend to live there. 

When Leonette, Garlan’s wife, made the introductions, the look of that ice princess grew warmer – and Willas was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t even look at his crooked leg. Of course, after a marriage with Tyrion nobody would have paid attention to such trifles – the leg was only slightly bent at the knee – but still. He had enough of curious, pitying and disdainful glances as it was.

“Would you like to see my hawks?” he suggested.

“With pleasure, my lord.”

Left forever limp, Willas admired the speed in others – especially the rapid flight of birds or the fast gallop of horses. He proudly showed to his bride one hawk after another and watched himself, entranced, as they flew like arrows from his arm into the sky and returned at a whistle or a clap.

"They're fast as lightning," he sighed and was immediately embarrassed: Lady Sansa wouldn't understand him, more likely, she'd think he was complaining. He didn't want at all to be seen like that – as a sourface cripple. 

"I once had a pet of my own, too," the girl said quietly.

Willas turned around. With hidden sadness, Sansa was watching the birds circling and sitting around him.

"Indeed?" he asked with interest. "What was it? A horse, I suppose?"

"A direwolf," Sansa said. "I called her Lady... So pretty, in her silvery grey coat, so gentle. A puppy still. She had already learned her name and took food from my hands..."

A silence followed, broken only by the quiet squawks and the rustle of the hawks' wings. Willas vaguely remembered that Jon Snow and Rickon Stark – the last surviving members of Lady Sansa's family – apparently also kept enormous, ferocious wolves.

"I loved her so much," the girl whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. Like an ice statue was melting in the spring sun.

Clumsily leaning on his cane with one arm, Willas stretched his free arm and put it around her shoulders, drawing her to him.

"Forgive me," Sansa said, checking herself and hurriedly wiping her eyes. "She... she... she was killed by Queen Cersei's order, long ago, I was eleven back then. It's just that I saw your hawks snuggling up to you and I remembered..."

She took his hand and lightly squeezed it, smiling gratefully. 

"I've heard you also have thoroughbred horses too, don't you? I would love to see them as well," she switched back to her former cold politeness, but it didn't bother Willas anymore.

"I'll be happy to show them to you, my lady. By the way, if you fancy one of the steeds, it's yours. You can count it as an early wedding present."

Sansa answered with a silver laugh, her blue eyes glimmered, and the mask-like face came alive again, this time with joy.

 _You'll melt here yet and come into blossom, my poor ice flower,_ Willas thought as they walked to the stables. It looked like he was holding Sansa by the elbow, as propriety demanded, but in reality he felt that her thin but strong hand carefully supported him.


	3. Cloudberry Tarts (Roose/Walda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theory about Roose Bolton's nature that I exploit here: http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Roose_Bolton/Theories

"Is it for me? Oh, is it really for me?"

Walda jumped in delight like a small pink ball.

There was nothing uncommon with "it" – "it" was nothing but a plate of tarts. Especially for Walda, who, as Roose had learned since their wedding, was ready to eat just anything.

"Yes, it's for you, my lady," he said when the pause became too long.

Walda fell upon his neck.

"Oh, thank you, my lord, thanks so much!" she squeaked right into his ear. Roose thought it was a stroke of luck that it was  _him_ who married her: any normal human would have grown deaf on the spot. Or not exactly, at first his muscles would have given way.

The young Lady Bolton, though, didn't understand that not every man would have held her in his arms so long – bright-eyed, she continued to chirp about the tarts.

"I haven't tasted them yet, but I like them already!" she said, gazing at him adoringly.

"And why is it so?" asked Roose.

"They're reddish gold and so cheerful, like the sun in the evening!" Walda smiled confidentially. "What are these berries, my lord?"

"It's cloudberry, it grows here in the North."

He lowered her down on the chair (she squeaked with glee once more).

"Don't you want some?"

"No, thank you, my lady."

"Come on, take one at least!" she battled her pale eyelashes. "They're so sunny!"

She put a tart into his hand, and Roose shrugged and took a bite. While he was chewing it, Walda ate half a dozen of such tarts, beaming and never taking her admiring eyes off him.

Lord Bolton had lived for many years and planned to live at least as many more. Changing his skin was for him as common as changing clothes for others. Sometimes he thought he should take a new sigil because of that – a snake or a spider, or some other beast that naturally sheds its old skin; but it would have suggested the right ideas to some people. It was strange that all this time it hadn't drawn anyone's attention that for many generations, Lord Bolton had always left exactly one son. If there were more sons, only one was alive at the father's death. And it was invariably the one who resembled his father most.

Lord Bolton had known plenty of women – in this shape alone he had two lawful wives alone before Walda. But never before had he had such an... odd one.

All women had either trembled with fear or held themselves with coldness and aloofness, obviously copying his own manner. And  **never** , not once, not a single time had a wife sought his company, to speak nothing of throwing herself upon him.

And then this rosy-cheeked and giggly gingerbread lady rolled into Dreadfort and turned everything upside down. Walda didn't care that Roose was a Bolton, that he was surrounded by all sorts of rumors, each more scary than the other, that he leeched himself (oh, how terrified were the previous wives of leeches!). It didn't even perturb her that he married her for the purest convenience! 

"My lord, are you sure you won't like more? Or I'll finish it all!" she warned him jokingly.

"Aye, my lady, if you're manipulating people like this at fifteen, in twenty years you might win the Iron Throne," Roose commented as he took a second tart, and Walda laughed merrily:

"Oh, I don't need it, I won't fit in it!"

Roose was astonished that the walls of Dreadfort hadn't yet collapsed from this fountain of cheerfulness. 

Moreover – he began to understand the Boltons' ancestor, the white woman of the Others. Earlier it had confused him: why did that cold creature from beyond the Wall even give herself to a human man, even if he had the idiocy to fall in love with her?

Now, sitting by Walda's side (she finished the tarts and was now happily chattering about something again), he admitted that just maybe it had generally been... not quite impossible.


	4. Courtly Love (Joffrey/Daenerys)

Your Grace,  ~~Klas~~   ~~Kheela~~ Khaleesi Daenerys!

This letter will probably surprise you. But the thing is that Varys (you don't know him, and you don't need to, it's a disgusting, fat, bald eunuch) has spied on you, and for a long time at that. I assure you it's a great honor:  _our_ spies don't waste time on just anyone. So that's why we learn quite a lot about your life.

I, myself, have to confess that the moment I heard the tales of what you've done, I realized the two of us are simply made for each other! You are the very girl I've searched and waited for all my life! The scraggy fools of Westeros pale before your glory!

They've told me the story about your brother's molten gold crowning five times or so, at my request. As I understand, the idea belonged to your late husband, but you certainly had a part in it! Anyway, it was a stroke of genius. And your revenge on that slimebag that killed the Khal – pity I wasn't there, I would have loved to look at that bonfire!

And, of course, your dragons... Oh, it must be an exulting feeling – to be able to burn anyone to crisps in a couple of seconds! I've always known the Targaryens loved to play with fire, but nobody of your ancestors had ever come to your level, I think.

So, what was I saying... Dear Daenerys, I beg you, marry me when you finally arrive in Westeros! I don't want to fight you at all – think of the heights we can reach together! I've heard much about your beauty too, and I'll be glad to see a fresh Valyrian face after all these drab brides my mother gives me. 

Oh, and apparently that burned witch has predicted you won't have children. I'm all for it. I like the dragons you've hatched much more than I like any children at all.

I hope for a quick and positive reply. They're marrying me to some lickspittle here, but I'll suffer it for a while, and then can you please burn her? She does nothing but push her way to the throne and her sugary sweetness gives me toothache.

I assure you of my tender and passionate love,

Joffrey Baratheon,

King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.


	5. The Spiderweb (Willas/Sansa)

A raven, dishevelled, wet all over and looking like a large pine cone, brings a letter from the capital. After a nearly endless trial, Petyr Baelish is executed, quietly and without fuss. 

"I can't believe it," Sansa whispers. "I was sure he'll worm his way out again."

Only now that Littlefinger is no more does she realize she has lived on a strain, hidden from everyone including herself. She was secretly frightened she'll end up in his power once more, an empty and weak puppet.

She cries, looking at the letter, and the yellowish paper blurs before her eyes.

"Was he dear to you after all?" Willas asks carefully.

It's been more than four months since their wedding. Ever since then, Sansa hasn't left Highgarden and tried not to invite any guests – from the capital, from the Vale or even from the North – she is just so tired of it all.

But she likes Willas. He doesn't have the dazzling beauty of Garlan and Loras, curly-haired, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, but the angular features of his serious face are pleasant to behold, and the dark-brown, almost black hair falls down to his shoulders, setting off his slight pallor, the result of long hours in the library.

She likes giving audiences to the smallfolk together with him – the Tyrells have a tradition of receiving visitors in the garden instead of the chamber, when the weather allows. She likes sitting with him in his study or in the library and visiting his beloved hawks, dogs and horses. She likes his gentle caresses at night and the way he calls her his "ice flower".

Best of all, she likes his tact.

Wiping her tears away, she shakes her head:

"No... not at all... it's the relief... I was so tired... afraid... afraid to again become a moth in a spiderweb..."

Willas softly takes her hand.

Sansa is instantly embarrassed: after all, as members of the Great Houses they can never hope to break free from the web of political intrigue, even their own marriage was political, they are just lucky they get on well.

"You know, my little rose, there are different kinds of spiderwebs," he says, raining light kisses on her face and neck as her incoherent murmur stops and she relaxes. "Some spiders don't make it for catching other insects and instead use it for nice little houses for themselves and their babies."

"What, are you interested in spiders as well?" Sansa wrinkles her nose, and her husband laughs:

"Of course! Every enemy of mosquitoes is my friend."

"And do you really believe a spider can make a house from its web?" she sceptically raises an eyebrow. "Some maester must have wanted to sound clever and written down whatever he took into his head."

"Not at all, my darling. I saw it myself. Such spiders live in our garden ponds – would you like me to show you?"

"Nooo, don't, they're creepy!"

The forgotten letter of Littlefinger's execution is blown down from the windowsill by a gush of the fresh spring wind. The raven, warmed in the sun and looking like a bird again, flies to the maester of Highgarden.

Sansa knows: hardly a couple of decades later, everyone will forget about Baelish, even her memory will turn him into a vague nightmare from the past. All the twists and turns of his spiderweb were broken and vanished into thin air, just like the memory of his will vanish too.

But Willas and herself will make a cozy home out of their cobweb.

Her face still wet with tears, Sansa laughs at the absurdity of such a comparison. Oh, this Willas and his learning pursuits – talk to him and you might compare yourself to anything from spiders down to sea squids!


	6. Friendly Help (Willas/Ellaria)

The long dark curls take a reddish shade in the light of the hearth, and the skin looks like gold.

Like a speckled tropical snake has somehow crawled into a birch grove – this visitor looks just as foreign in Highgarden. 

Her body arches, almost snake-like:

"I'm leaving tomorrow..."

"Aren't you happy?"

"If I weren't happy, I wouldn't be leaving. But I'll miss you. Truly. And you?" her lips touch his, and he responds to her kiss, pressing himself against her and unable to contain himself.

"I'll miss you too."

Yes, it won't be the same without her. Only the lowest rake and brute won't grow fond of the woman who has given him her affections for several weeks.

Given, just like that. As a friend, though.

It all started when he blurted out, in his letter to Oberyn (although, to be honest, the latter was the first to ask) that ever since it became clear his leg was crippled forever, he had never had a woman. He forbade himself even to think of any relationship, except for a marriage of convenience that was destined for him sooner or later.

Getting pleased, with his leg, he wrote, would be impossible, to say nothing of pleasing anyone else.

Oberyn, as a true Dornishman, was appalled. And as a true Dornishman, he suggested ( _purely as a friend, Willas, and since it's my fault_ ) demonstrating personally that a shattered knee wasn't a setback in lovemaking.

Willas firmly said no.

Once again, Oberyn showed himself a true son of his nation. He wasn't vexed or at a loss at all – he sent Ellaria Sand to Highgarden, tall, brown-skinned, and, oddly, passionate and genuinely gentle and caring at the same time. And a Dornishwoman to her fingertips as well.

"It's wrong," Willas mumbled. "Oberyn's my friend..."

"And he's very worried about you," Ellaria finished. "You're handsome, wise, kind, as well-read as any maester, you love your beasties," Willas couldn't help but laugh at fearless hawks and powerful stallions being called "beasties". "Most girls can only dream of such a lover. As for your poor leg... it was a nasty business, of course, but it can't hinder you from your pleasure!"

He's calm by nature, but any restraint has its limits. Of course, he couldn't resist.

He still feels awkward and ashamed, but Ellaria, with her dark eyes that look like smoldering coals and her feline grace, can seduce even a stone, and Oberyn cheerfully sends his regards and expresses hope that Willas now feels more confident.

"We'll both miss each other, but there's some time before the parting!" she whispers, and her fingers touch the fastenings of his cloak.

* * *

Pale and thoughtful, dressed in green silk with golden embroidery, he looks strange among the olive-skinned Dornishmen in red and scarlet – like a modest lark who has flown into the jungle of the Summer Isles.

She's still slender and graceful, even though she has borne two more daughters. But the glimmer in her black eyes is gone, and her voice sounds calm and monotonous, like that of a septa – the former passion is gone.

"You came here! By the Magisters of Lys, you really came..."

She embraces him, and he feels tears falling onto his doublet.

"How could I not... I'm your friend..."

"I'm alone, all alone, I'm so frightened, Willas!" she presses herself against him, and he knows it's the truth. Doran Martell plans revenge for Oberyn against the Lannisters, but Ellaria believes this revenge won't get them anywhere – it will only result, most probably, in death of the elder Sand Snakes. But the latter have already left for the Crownlands, and the widowed (can one say it if she wasn't actually married?) Dornishwoman is helpless before her fate, with her youngest daughters in her arms, all of them still kids.

Willas isn't the most welcomed guest in Sunspear. His grandmother and father are no friends of the Martells, especially since the Lannister-Tyrell alliance.

"If you want, move to the Reach with the girls," he lets it slip before realizing it.

For a moment, the past glimmer in her eyes returns, and she laughs:

"Oh, Willas! So that we'll get poisoned three days later by your grandmother?"

"I can't say which of you will poison whom in three days..." Willas chuckles.

"I have to think of Obella, Dorea and Loreza. I can't risk their lives and health... or are you so much in love with me?"

"Oh, no!" it looked like the lowest thing ever – trying and making passes at your friend's paramour less than half a year after his death. "I only wanted to help."

"You've helped already, Willas, dear."

One kiss on the cheek – the reminder of these wild weeks at Highgarden. Thankfully, she doesn't go further than that. He was ashamed enough in Oberyn's lifetime, but after he was killed...

"If things go really bad, I'll take the girls and go to Lys. My mother's relations live there, they'll give me roof."

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too," she smiles faintly. "You're a friend of mine. Mine and Oberyn's. I'll never forget it."

Servants come into the room – they're certainly spying for Doran Martell, and Ellaria takes a step back:

"If you like, you can go meet my daughters. You haven't seen them yet, and you're leaving soon."

With an expert gesture, she takes him by the arm so that it's easy for him to walk. They walk along the gallery to the inner yard, and the smile of Willas warms Ellaria much better than the Dornish sun.

 


	7. In the Northern Seas (Eddard/Asha)

Fate can play odd tricks on people.

It was Brandon, the brave and reckless one, the tireless hotspur, who ought to have gone on such adventures – Ned would have been perfectly content with Winterfell, the rustle of the weirwood tree's scarlet leaves, the quiet cellars with his ancestors' graves.

But it happened so that Brandon was the firstborn. Winterfell and the North belong to him, and he has to rule them in some way or other. Ned isn't jealous of him, not in the least – he doesn't want power, he has dreamed of a household and family.

Household and family. He has got them, in a manner of speaking... it's all how you look at it...

The merciless irony once again. The wild Brandon should have married the independent and uncontrollable maid, and Ned – the thrifty and quiet Catelyn Tully. But there's no escaping fate... Nobody asked them.

The wind seems to be stabbing the face with tiny thorns of ice. The waves rise, almost flowing over the deck, and Ned watches with worry as slabs of whitish ice glide over the planks.

"We won't reach land here!" Asha yells. "We've got to turn northwards!"

"We'll be stuck if we go further north!" he replies. "If there's so much ice here, a bit further we'll be trapped fast!"

"What do you suggest?"

"There's a fine site over there, I think we'll be able to anchor!"

Brandon had a good laugh when Ned decided to leave his wife her ship and, moreover, to accompany her on her voyages himself. He called him a wimp. Ned answered that one Greyjoy Rebellion was more than enough for the next hundred years or so, and it's therefore better to turn Asha's whims to the good of the North than to try to suppress her and provoke her revolt.

Now everyone saw how right Ned had been. A new King Beyond the Wall has crowned himself, and the North can strike at the quickly gathered armies not just with the force of the Night's Watch, but from the sea as well. And Mance Rayder has no fleet.

They manage to hit the shore. Ned sends a group with harpoons in the vanguard – the walrus men that live around here are probably Mance Rayder's allies.

He goes right after them with Asha. From afar, Lady Stark can be mistaken for a lad – her black hair cut short, an axe in her hand that she wields better than many men, her eyes shining with battle fury... When Ned saw his bride for the first time, he didn't recognize her himself – he thought that, contrary to what he had heard, Greyjoy had another surviving son.

He smiles at the memory.

"What's cheered you up so much?"

"I'm thinking back on how we first met."

"Oh, these sentimental Northmen! I remember it too, don't doubt it. Do you know what it's like when you're thirteen and you're told you'll marry one of the people who crashed our rebellion?"

"But when I realized it was you, I promised to give you a dagger and to sail the Bay of Ice with you, and your spirits were lifted a bit."

Asha grins. He fulfilled his first promise before the wedding – for many years she hasn't parted from the elegant dagger with a kraken-shaped handle. Now, even if not exactly on his free will, he fulfilled the second one.

"You Starks can't be accused of dishonesty."

* * *

Returning to the North, Asha doesn't admit to herself how afraid she is of what she'll find there. In a battle with the fleet of King's Landing she was washed off into the sea, and she was probably believed dead for a long while. After a torturous float on a piece of wreckage she was dying of thirst and hunger, when a ship from the Islands picked her up – thankfully, it belonged to Victarion Greyjoy who recognized his niece.

In the war that began after Robert's death Brandon Stark and his fourteen-year-old son Cregard lost their lives, Theon was killed, and now Asha herself went missing for many months – it took her time to reach Pyke, then to get a new ship from Father... Who now captains her beloved  _Black Wind_?

Asha thinks of the ship to avoid thinking of her family.

Eddard Stark – after the failed rebellion she thought him heartless, then, as she got to knew him, she thought him boring. After the wedding, when he began to sail with her, she mentally called him weak.

He was neither the first, the second, nor the third. She doesn't want to admit how she misses his calm grey eyes, his tired smile, their practice in the yard – she used to hate it, because he always got the better of her with swords, but now she wishes so desperately to cross the blades with him again, even if in a few seconds she'll find herself in the mud with Ice at her throat.

Everything is covered with fluffy white snow, and Asha is suddenly glad to see the northern lands again.

Probably Ned has married that demure redhead Catelyn, Brandon's widow. There are no male heirs – although Brandon has left plenty of bastards, one can't legitimize them, of course!

 _Well, let him! Let him have her! I'll return to the Islands, they'll elect me Queen!_ If Asha had been speaking it all aloud, she'd have long ago let out a hysterical scream.  _Only I won't let you have Arya and Germunda – I'll take them with me, and these... these bores would better not try and argue!_

She hadn't wanted children, especially daughters, but that had been back then. The sixteen-year-old Arya and twelve-year-old Germunda own the tenderest corner of her heart that is generally not used to gentle feelings. Both take after her (well, maybe a bit after their aunt Lyanna, as Ned says) – Arya is a brilliant archer and madly loves sea voyages, Germunda adores riding, and during a journey to the Free Cities she got herself an arakh and now practices with it constantly.

Have the Starks received at least one of the ravens from Pyke! In such weather, the birds might have been lost. The first raven carried the letter that she was alive, the second – the news of her return.

Asha's escort is small – about twenty men. They carry the Greyjoy standard – for the simple reason that there were no banners with direwolves on the Iron Islands, and Asha didn't want to wait until they were sewn.

Five riders come out of Winterfell's gates to meet her. There's Arya – so tall and grown, and her new attire is black, she must have grown out of the old grey one...

_You fool, they've believed you dead!_

Germunda, laughing, is galloping on her favorite chestnut steed, of course, ahead of everyone else – the black curls she stubbornly refuses to cut are waving in the wind. Standing back there are Catelyn, her red hair and uptight bearing can be recognized from far away, and Jon, Ned's bastard – Asha has nothing against him, but he's terribly shy himself and feels awkward by the side of a stepmother barely older than himself.

She adamantly doesn't look at the fifth rider who almost catches up with Germunda.

"Mother! Dearest mother, you're alive!" Germunda reins in her horse and hugs her mother at the same time, and Asha tightly hugs her back. "Maester Luwin brought your raven the day before yesterday – poor thing, it was all thinned and weakened, and it was attacked by hunting gulls over the village! We've nursed it back to health, but haven't prepared you a welcome!"

"Haven't prepared, indeed," Asha smiles.

To her amazement, she's happy to see not only Ned and her daughters, not only Jon, but even Catelyn.

"Asha," Ned rides towards her hesitantly and jumps on the ground. She stiffens: now he'll say it,  _I thought you dead, forgive me, we need male heirs..._

"I was afraid you'll stay on the Islands," he takes her off her horse, and for a moment she feels like it's their first meeting again.

"I haven't, as you see..."

She wants to uphold her reputation – at least in front of her retinue – and hates to look like a tearful idiot, but somehow she can't help it. Well, her men don't look too disappointed. Ned, who sails her ship together with her, is known as the Northern Seafarer, and they respect him on the Islands.

Even Germunda and the approaching Arya for once don't grimace and roll their eyes at the sight of their parents' kiss.

 


	8. The Scorned (Theon/Myrcella)

The wedding is so quiet and quick and gloomy that the lowest peasants are probably merrier.

The newlyweds last met each other many years ago, during King Robert's visit to Winterfell, and their lives have changed so much one wouldn't know them.

 _If only he had been like he was back then – handsome, with a sarcastic smile, effortlessly shooting arrows at the mark, making everyone blush with his jokes, how much easier it would have been for me to be happy!_ the bride thinks.  _And if I hadn't been wounded in Dorne, I'd have been a beauty, like Mother, and he'd have liked me immediately... Oh, at least I remember him as he used to be, but he must have forgotten me completely – I was only a small child then..._

"Forgive me, Myrcella," her uncle hugs her. "If I could, I'd have found you a better groom... _the_ best in the Seven Kingdoms..."

She's not so stupid. She understands that Theon and her are lucky to be alive at all. He used to be the heir to the Iron Islands and she a princess, and now both are the filthy riffraff hated by most, if not everyone. Theon was saved only by the pleas of his sister, Jeyne Bolton and (remembering their former friendship) Jon Snow. Myrcella has Uncle Tyrion's protection to thank.

_They've got rid of us both, shoved us into a corner – very convenient..._

Naturally, nothing at all happens in bed. On the second night, on the third one and further on Myrcella doesn't get even a kiss.

In a week they sail to a tiny Iron Island, now handed to Theon. A large stone house instead of a castle, a village around it, and that's all. But the smallfolk greet their new lords relatively warmly.

Theon, though, does little ruling, preferring to agree with Myrcella on everything. She's scared – it's difficult to rule by yourself, even if you have less than a hundred subjects. But her husband renews his archery exercises, and Myrcella likes it: during the exercises he resembles his former self.

* * *

"My lord, we... we need heirs. I know I'm disfigured, but if you want, I can cover my face. Or maybe you'll close your eyes? Down there, I'm no worse than others."

For a moment Theon turns to her, but then his face is distorted by such a grimace that it gives her the creeps.

"It will be painful."

"It won't. I'll prepare myself," Myrcella puts her hand between her thighs. Of course, she can't get rid of discomfort entirely, but she has learned to pretend pretty well and she'll easily convince her husband he hasn't hurt her at all.

"Painful. Dirty. I'm a vile and disgusting and  _reeking_ creature," Theon suddenly breaks down. "I don't deserve to touch you, my lady."

Myrcella's heart sinks. She has heard of what he has been through in Ramsay Bolton's captivity, but she doesn't know the details. She didn't think it was _this_ bad...

The lifeless eyes and horribly tormented expression... Can't it be fixed?

She stretches her hand and touches his face:

"My lord... Theon..."

"Don't, my lady," he recoils. "Don't you what I've done? I'm a turncloak, a nothing."

Myrcella can't hold herself together either. All her life she has been a nice and gentle girl, first genuinely, then a bit less so, but one day the constant sweet smile makes the lips grow stiff.

"Well, what do you want me to do? I'm not happy either – either with you, with this cold little island that you, an ironborn, aren't interested in, or with my fate and the fame that runs ahead of me! Or don't you know? My mother's the mad queen, my father's a drunkard and an usurper, my real father – a kingslayer, I tried to take the throne myself! Now my only chance is to found a good dynasty in this dump, but I've got a husband who does nothing but feel sorry for himself!"

"No! No one should be sorry for me, I'm a traitor..." 

"Who doesn't even try to make up for what he has done! Yes, you saved Lady Jeyne, so why have you stopped at it? If you've been given your life, make the best of it! But you leave me to rule these fishermen, I have to decide whether your rituals can be performed in half-frozen water, whether a maid from the Reach can be counted as a salt wife if the wedding took place in a sept, whether a one-legged man can go on a voyage – even though I have no idea about most of these customs and nobody wants to explain them to me!"

"A marriage in a sept isn't valid," Theon says automatically. 

"Theon, please, wake up from your trance. Do you think you're the only one? Almost every night I dream of poor Ser Oakheart and everyone who was killed because of me in Dorne. As for what my family has done, if not myself, I won't even speak of it. We can whine about it endlessly and continue to whine for another thirty years. Do you want us to stay in everyone's memory like this?"

"What can we do? Here, on Loxmount," that's the name of their island, "we won't be of any use. What's more, I'm not..."

"Quiet. Forget all these 'not's of yours. These Bolton rotters absolutely don't deserve to be remembered for so long."

* * *

Their standard is a golden gull and a black boat on an azure field (a kraken and a lion would look idiotic when combined, and why do they need them when they're effectively banished from their own Houses?). Their new name is Greywaters. Myrcella is a bastard anyway.

They're still politely ignored – only Uncle Tyrion, whose title of a Hand allows him to interpret the Queen's decrees rather loosely, and Asha, who has never paid attention to any kind of rules, send them ravens. There are no palaces of gold built on Loxmount and it doesn't play any part in politics – and Myrcella knows they'd better stay like this in the nearest future.

The golden gull is her emblem. She deals with the everyday and less everyday matters on the island and watches over the fleet – a small but a nice one. She now feels at home on the Islands, and, despite her golden curls and green eyes, they believe her to be one of them. 

If she's respected, Theon's feared. He's better than on his wedding day, but he has remained grim and reserved. Myrcella is the only one who can always manage him. After her grandfather and Uncle Stannis – the most morose men in the kingdom – she is quite experienced.

Theon is captain of their flagship, the  _Swift_. He likes sailing to the North, he even negotiated a sort of trade with the wildlings – one of the few who don't care for the intrigues of Westeros and who are friendly with both Myrcella and her husband.

When he smiles at her (the last time was when their firstborn Sigfryd learned to swim), for a moment Myrcella sees the former Theon, bold and resilient, and at these times she believes stronger than ever that someday they might fix everything completely.

 


	9. A Crutch in the Darkness (Tyrion/Sansa)

“Careful, it’s my head, not the bedpost.”

“I know. I heard you sigh,” she tenderly petted his hair. “Was the sky clear this evening?”

“Not exactly clear, but the sun showed itself a couple of times before setting.”

“It seemed to me, too, that it was sometimes lighter in the room.”

“By the way, thank you for the cape, I liked it a lot, and it’s so warm too. The embroidery is perfect – I can hardly believe it that you are… that you can do such a pattern by the feel.”

“Oh, it’s just that Lady Dorna helped me, she embroidered the first five flowers, and from then on it was easy.”

“Still, you’re wonderful. I haven’t seen such embroidery even in the Free Cities.”

* * *

When it became clear that the power of Lord Baelish was close to collapse and Daenerys would soon come to the Vale with her host and dragons, Littlefinger did everything he could to save the day for himself. In particular, he wanted to get rid of everyone who knew too much of his plans. And first of all – of his sweet daughter Alayne. 

After all, there were many red-haired girls with blue eyes in the world and Petyr Baelish had only one head on his shoulders.

But Sansa turned out to be healthier than he had expected. Or she had only swallowed part of the poison – even she didn’t know for sure what happy coincidence had saved her life. Anyway, she had time to run, choking, to Mya Stone, and the latter called to help in an original way – shooting burning arrows in the air.

Sansa remembered how, as she came to her senses, she heard some old man’s voice:

“No need to be alarmed about her life, and we’ve cleaned her stomach with the herbal infusion, but her head… Don’t worry, she won’t go mad, but I fear she’ll be blind forever.”

“Now, now!” another, female voice interrupted him, young and vigorous. “I’ll bet you my father’s spear the herbs will help her. She won’t have an eagle eye, but her sight will come back.”

“You’re young, my lady…”

“You’re old, maester…”

The voices grew fainter, and as Sansa opened her eyes she realized, panicking, that whoever these people were they told the truth. Whether her eyelids were opened or closed, she saw nothing but darkness.

The girl began to grasp the air with her hands, desperately searching for some support, some mark… until her hand touched someone’s palm, a small one, like a child’s…

“You’re awake! At last, poor thing!”

“My lord?” she exclaimed. “How come you’re here? How did you get here?”

“On dragonback. I’ll tell you later. Oh, Sansa, you must have forgotten what happened – he tried to poison you…”

“I remember… and… I heard the maester and the lady who have just left.”

Tyrion swallowed:

“Sansa… you’ve had a great shock, I don’t know how to console you… but I want to help as much as I can. I have so little of value left in my life… so little that can still be mended…”

For a couple of moments, myriads of questions danced on Sansa’s tongue. How had Tyrion survived? How had he ended up with Daenerys? Did he really ride a dragon? Why was he still fussing with her and hadn’t handed her over to the maesters?

Instead, feeling blood rush to her cheeks, stretched her free arm, felt her husband’s crooked shoulders and pulled him towards her:

“Please, my lord, I ask just one thing: don’t annul our marriage. I was unforgivably cold with you in King’s Landing, but I promise it won’t happen again! You’re one of the few who were kind to me, and now I,” she felt herself crying, “can’t survive without support!”

* * *

About half a year had passed since he found Sansa in the Vale. His wife’s eyesight was slowly recovering – he was afraid to hope for anything, but even he had to admit it. She could tell dark from light very well, and sometimes she even could distinguish some particularly bright-colored objects – thankfully, at Casterly Rock there were some entire galleries furnished in purple and gold. 

At first he hadn't wanted to keep their marriage going very much, he thought Sansa was being so tender only for the sake of acquiring a new ally – or she, Littlefinger's accomplice, would have had a rough time, and not just because she was blind. But, giving it some consideration, he concluded that hardly any other wife would be kinder to him, even for his title and money, and if Sansa decided not to break their union, it was her choice. Besides, whatever other motives she might have had, her despair in looking for support was clearly genuine.

In the first days he was even a bit unsettled – she was just so attentive. Smiled all the time, asked him about his adventures in Essos... called him to the marriage bed herself at once, turning out to be a maiden, to his amazement.

 _Baelish taught her well_ , Tyrion sometimes thought gloomily, trying to find falseness in her soft voice or beaming smile. But one day, catching himself thinking like this, he figured: even if all Sansa's tenderness was false, he hadn't received even that from her before, so wouldn't it be better to relax and enjoy his unexpected comfort?

And then she took to preparing gifts for him. Sometimes he found some rare delicacy on the table ("Your lady wife ordered to bake it, milord, and told us how"), or white porcelain plates suddenly became painted in exotic patterns ("Tyrion, I sometimes visited craftsmen in the Vale, and, well... I learned a bit...), now it was a new cape.

Sansa's warm fingers touched his forehead. She lightly swiped them over his brows, caressed the old scar he got at Blackwater.

"Why are you scowling?" she whispered.

"I can't fool you," Tyrion chuckled.

"Have I offended you?"

"Not at all."

"Do you suspect me of something?"

He must have moved or started in some way without realizing it – after losing her sight, Sansa began to often notice such details. She sighed, took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her:

"Be honest, you do, don't you?"

"It's just that the way you were in King's Landing... and the way you're now... I'm afraid I've forgotten how to trust people, Sansa."

"Me too... almost," she said. "I didn't account... I thought Baelish certainly won't hurt me. And I was wrong. Tyrion, I've seen what an excess of trust can do... but I think it's necessary between husband and wife. That's why if I'm being tender with you or if I give you something, I'm not putting you off guard and I'm not buttering up to you, I only wish to cheer you up after everything you've been through."

Tyrion felt like a pig. The last time he felt like that was after the death of the dwarf Penny, who had been (as he only realized then) utterly and truly devoted to him. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, taking her hand. "And you... can you trust me?"

"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have asked you for support."

 _What this land has come to! I'm the only light in the dark for my little Winterfell wife – who could imagine?_ In truth, Tyrion didn't want to be ironic even to himself.  _All right. Let's try this trust thing, I suppose... or else what, will we suspect each other of all possible things for another thirty or forty years while I live? If I'm mistaken again, now I'm Hand of the Queen and Warden of the West, it won't be so easy to defeat me._

He blew off the candles, and Sansa leaned against the pillows, opening her arms.


	10. The Heir (Tywin/Catelyn)

"Mother, do you love me?"

Nobody else of the children asks such questions. Catelyn tries to give equal love and care to everyone, including her stepson, but they do say that children can feel things that not every grown man would detect. So the poor boy is restless, and his only fault is being born too soon. The sorrow of her loss, the sorrow of parting, the fear of her new marriage had been still fresh in the woman's heart...

"Of course I do, darling, how can I not?"

Of all her children, it's Laegor who's Tyrion's closest friend. Of course, strategically it's good (Catelyn sighs sadly, feeling that she has started to think like a Lannister): Laegor's birth put an end to the dwarf's hopes to inherit, but, since they're friends and can easily reach an agreement, at least there's less of a cause to fear a future feud.

But Catelyn Tully, raised on the idea that family should be above everything, watches bitterly Tyrion and Laegor standing together. How could her son remember his infancy and early childhood?

* * *

She hated the Greyjoys. Why, why did they need that independence? And even if they did – they should have sat on these Islands of theirs, nobody cared for them anyway! Eddard would have been alive, and the Kingslayer would have been alive, and Cat, who had just become really used to life in Winterfell, wouldn't have been sent south to bear the heirs to Casterly Rock.

As if all this – Ned's death, and Lord Tywin's offer immediately afterwards – wasn't enough, fate had another "gift" in store for Cat. 

Winterfell, damn it, must always have a Stark in it. Leaving for the Rock, Catelyn only took her daughters with her – she had to leave Robb in Winterfell in the care of Maege Mormont. She wept, begged, cried in hysterics, she suggested summoning Benjen Stark from the Wall until Robb was of age – to no avail. The northern lords were relentless.

By now, her marriage to Tywin Lannister had only one good side to it – it wasn't worse than Cat had imagined. Her new husband was stern and rarely ever smiled – but, in contrast to Ned, her dear Ned, the heart behind the cold looks was just as cold.

But he was polite with her and careful enough in bed (nobody would have called him  _gentle_ ). Sansa and Arya wanted for nothing. And when Laegor was born, Tywin smiled at his wife for the first time, and she noticed with surprise that he has a rather nice smile.

Laegor had green eyes with golden sparks, and his head was already covered with golden fluff. For a long time Catelyn couldn't bear to look at him, leaving the baby in the wet nurses' care.

* * *

His heir Laegor, compared to the weakling Jaime and to Tyrion who's... who's Tyrion, is quite fine. Of course, he's not ideal – he's too melancholy, in Tywin's opinion, and too devoted to his half-brother. Cat, though, believes the latter is a good thing: thanks to his friendship with Tyrion, Laegor does wonderfully on his lessons.

Perhaps.

Cat herself isn't as bad a wife as he had feared before marriage. She's still very beautiful, and, like a true Tully, she's well-behaved and obedient... obedient enough. Her one fault is her kind-heartedness. Sometimes she reminds him of his own father. 

Occasionally Tywin finds himself following her advice – ordering a softer punishment for criminals, issuing a less strict decree, agreeing to send Joffrey to study at the Citadel, not giving Tyrion another dressing-down... Afterwards he tries to be distant from her for a while so that he wouldn't seem henpecked.

* * *

The first months after the wedding had been horrible. Tywin cursed himself a thousand times for deciding to marry the widowed Lady Stark. Whenever he looked away, she burst into tears, mourning her husband (that was understandable at least), her son (now that was odd – Robb Stark was alive!), and her own miserable part.

Her little daughters were less trouble than he had anticipated – the four-year-old Sansa was meek as a lamb; however, the one-year-old Arya made enough racket and mischief for both, but Tywin had put her into the care of specially hired nurses and nannies, who watched over her in a distant chamber – thankfully, the Rock had plenty of space.

Then Catelyn became pregnant soon after the wedding. It was good, of course – it was for the heirs that he married her. But in reality her tearfulness escalated to absolutely unruly hysterics; hardly surviving a fortnight after the happy news, Tywin went to King's Landing on the pretext of another tournament hosted by King Robert. There he remained until it was time for his wife's confinement.

In King's Landing, though, things weren't going smoothly either. Cersei was so crushed by her brother's death that she hardly took part in state matters, and she grew as fond of wine as her husband. Joffrey and Myrcella were growing up by themselves like nettles at a fence – weighing all options, Tywin gritted his teeth and took them to the Rock for fostering. He hated assembling so many children in his own castle, but what could he do? He couldn't send them to the Arryns or the Martells, and leaving them with their parents would be a crime.

* * *

"The reply from Highgarden has come, Lord Mace consents," Catelyn says. "He even suggested Willas instead of Loras... but our girl is still so young, isn't she?"

Tywin is better acquainted with the Baratheons and their bannermen and he sees the Tyrells' logic:

"Sansa is quite grown, moreover, the wedding isn't tomorrow or the day after. I told you we should offer her hand for Willas."

"I was just thinking about the age difference," explains Catelyn.

"Our age difference is even bigger, but our marriage isn't the worst one out there."

Blushing faintly, Cat smiles: coming from Tywin Lannister, it's a rare compliment.

"Ferrego Antaryon agrees to the trade negotiations," she continues to shuffle through the newly arrived letters and takes out an envelope with the seal of the Sealord of Braavos. "Arya wants to lead our envoys."

"Tyrion will lead them, but Arya can go with them too."

To Cat's amazement, it wasn't the proper girl Sansa but her wild younger sister who became the favorite of the new family. Tyrion can constantly talk with her about ancient history and faraway lands, and he adores traveling with her. Tywin treats Arya with a mix of condescension and respect – and, horrifying Cat, he finally turns a blind eye to her love for fencing and archery.

"Cersei was interested in it as well, and I forbade her to even think of swords and arrows. Now she's a laughing stock," he says when Cat tries to argue. "If Arya takes her lead from Visenya Targaryen and Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, better just to raise her in that manner – she'll be of more use."

Cat marvels to herself: it looks as if they've switched roles! Tywin Lannister who's ready to indulge his stepdaughter – and Catelyn Tully Stark who wants to change her own daughter's character! Who'd have thought?

They have very few arguments about Laegor, the longed-for heir. He grows up just the way he should – with the wits and cunning of the Lannisters and the notions of family love and honor of the Tullys. Of course, Tywin finds something to criticize in him as well, but Cat is sure it's more for the appearance.

The youngest daughters, Janella and Joanna, are twins but aren't identical – Janella is red-haired and Joanna is fair. There's little trouble with them – they always follow Sansa and Myrcella and look up to them in everything. They'll certainly miss Sansa when she gets married and leaves... Well, who knows, maybe they'll also be married into the Reach someday.

Cat thinks of it but she knows she doesn't want to let them go to the Reach. She doesn't want to part either from them or from Sansa. Even for the sake of the best grooms in the world. She has been through enough when she had to leave Robb – Robb, who is now grown, rules the North himself and is friendly but cool towards her at their rare meetings. At such times she's always ashamed her marriage with Tywin is really... not the worst one.

* * *

When the septa said Lady Lannister had gone into labor, Tywin couldn't restrain himself. Even though more than ten years had passed, his memory of Joanna expiring on the blooded featherbed was too fresh.

"Let me in," he said sharply. Under his alert eye, no bloody midwife would dare to make a mistake that could cost the life of the mother or the child.

He went into the room, and Catelyn stared at him wide-eyed – he had arrived from the capital only the night before and she hadn't seen him yet.

"Y-you've come..." she whispered in disbelief. Tywin realized that she didn't understand him, she thought he was worried about her and not the heir... But he didn't dissuade her.

"As you see."

The woman's tired face broke into a smile that, however, instantly curved into a painful grimace. Tywin glared at the midwives, who instantly ran around with towels, water, milk of the poppy and some other mixtures.

His wife's fingers squeezed his arm.

"Please don't leave!" she choked out, tensing and hissing once more with pain. "Ned... he sat at my side... I didn't think that you..." she shrieked.

These had been long hours, but this time no life was lost. She gave birth to a healthy, sturdy green-eyed boy, just the one who could grow into a worthy heir, and Tywin couldn't suppress a smile.

But Catelyn cringed as she saw the baby – probably didn't like it that he had nothing from the Tullys. Then she raised her eyes to her husband and nodded at him weakly:

"Tywin... thank you for sitting with me."

That's when they decided their marriage wasn't entirely hopeless.

Since Cat had slowly let go of her tearfulness and even learned to think logically, that decision had been useful for her.

* * *

...Since Tywin sometimes smiled, _even_ in Tyrion's presence, and learned to set limits to his harshness in treatment of their subjects, Cat hoped she was useful to him. At least a bit.


	11. The Knight and the Princess (Robb/Myrcella)

She was admiring the way he practiced with his sword, easily parrying the strikes of his bastard brother. In the sun Robb Stark's auburn hair shone like copper and his eyes glinted. His fast and precise movements reminded her of the legendary knights and heroes – the Winged Knight, Benedict the Just, Aemon the Dragonknight... Well, and maybe of Uncle Jaime too.

When Snow – his name was Jon, she believed – finally fell on the ground, defeated, Myrcella couldn't help but clap.

Both boys turned to her. Snow stood up. 

"My princess," they said in unison, bowing respectfully.

"Can I help you with anything?" Robb added. "Are you perhaps lost?"

What a beautiful smile he had... Few people smiled so kindly at court.

"No, I... I was watching you fight, my lord," she blushed bashfully. "You are very... very skilled with your sword."

"Thank you, my princess," though Robb probably heard such praise every day, it was obvious he was pleased. "I assure you I'm only learning. My brother Jon – he fights very well."

Myrcella's heart skipped a beat at such honorable words. To call a bastard "brother" so easily! And to praise him ahead of himself, when it was clear Robb was a hundred times better than him!

"Him too," she agreed, a bit out of line. Snow bowed again and quietly edged away, not to embarrass her. 

"If you were a knight and fought in a tourney, you'd even defeat Uncle Jaime!" Myrcella blurted out. Robb laughed:

"Thank you, you flatter me. But the knightly vows and tourneys aren't widespread here in the North."

Feeling her head spin with her rush of courage, Myrcella asked him trustingly:

"My lord, when I grow up, could you come to us for a tourney? I'll give you my favor."

He looked at her, gently and a tad indulgently:

"Who am I to go against your wishes? I promise to come to a tourney and wear your favor, my princess – no matter what."

Myrcella decided she'd better go – they must have been waiting to continue their exercises and she was interfering. Dropping a curtsey, she ran to the room that was given to her – she wanted to practice sewing before the local septa's lesson.

Her work had never gone so smoothly before. How elated she was! Robb Stark captivated her back at the feast celebrating Father's arrival to Winterfell, when he escorted her to the table, holding her arm, and now he practically agreed to become her knight...

Having seen enough of court life, Myrcella had always been a pragmatic girl – not a dreamer such as, for instance, Robb's sister Lady Sansa – and she realized that it was up the air whether the young lord would remember his promise when she grew up, and whether Father would still be holding tourneys, because the master of coin was already worried about the debts. But she knew for certain that, however fate would turn out, she'd remember this day forever – as one of the most wonderful ones in her life.

Myrcella sat with her sewing on her knees and was as happy as one could ever be with the first childhood love.


	12. The Crushed Shards (Orys/Argella)

She reminds him of a broken crystal goblet. Not just broken, but one whose shards were meticulously smashed and crushed afterwards. She was deprived of all at once – her crown, her rights, her lands, her self-respect, her subjects... at least not her honor. They saved it for him. 

He wanted to execute the guards who had betrayed her, but Rhaenys, as he learned later, changed the sentence to an exile. After all, when your queen is ready to let the whole castle burn in dragonfire, betrayal suddenly becomes a bit more forgivable.

Now Argella doesn't look like the Storm Queen. She wanders the castle like a shadow, agreeing with any decision of Orys, and often weeps. She feels she has no chance of getting back the love of her subjects.

At least she can be sure of his love. Orys has been crazy about her, in the best traditions of fairytales and legends, ever since he saw her from afar during a visit to the Riverlands. For a single warm look of her sea-blue eyes he is ready to do anything.

He bitterly acknowledges it that she doesn't truly love him, and hardly will in her condition. She reaches out to him for support. She trusts him, perhaps. But nothing more. At night she's pliant and supple, and even the most ardent embraces can't wake even a spark of passion in her.

But little time has passed. Orys hopes, can't stop hoping, that Argella will be better someday.

Honestly, he'd have preferred her to lunge at him with a dagger for murdering her father. Even if it happened in an honorable battle.

Sometimes, when he sees she's feeling especially downcast, he puts her on his knee like a child and quietly strokes her hair, caressing the dark silky locks.

"You won't break, my love, I promise you," he whispers. "You've been through a lot, but you're strong, you're smart, and you'll still be the most celebrated lady in the land."

* * *

Is it her husband at all? When Argella runs out to greet Orys, returned from his Dornish captivity, at first it seems to her that it's his twin, a wicked stranger.

No, it's him. The desperate and bitter look in his black eyes becomes softer and warmer as she approaches him.

But the former Orys doesn't come back. For hours he sits in silence, looking at the remains of his hand, and hissing with fury, dreaming of revenge on the Dornish. Neither the merry games of Davos, who's growing like a tree in the sun, nor the tenderness of Argella can bring him back to life. 

Seven years ago it was Argella who was broken and depressed, and this time they seem to have switched roles.

 _Why was I allowed so little happiness? Curse Aegon and his Dornish War!_ She has never liked the silver-haired king, and now she hates him with all the passion she can muster.

She talks to Orys loudly and slowly, like to a withered old man, reminding him of the sweet stories from their life before he left for Dorne.

"Do you remember it, when I showed to you the castle grounds and tried to say that a crack in a stone was the trace of Durran's sword, and you laughed and said it was the claw of Queen Rhaenys's dragon?"

"Do you remember how we went to King's Landing, and you bought me a sapphire necklace and said it matches my eyes?"

"Do you remember..."

During one such talk, a half-groan, half-sob bursts from Orys.

"My Storm Queen!" he embraces her with his good hand. She hugs his head against her breasts and strokes his ever-tousled black curls.

"We'll have our revenge, Orys, certainly. You'll get your strength back, and we'll our revenge, I promise."

 


	13. A Direwolf's Instinct (Tyrion/Sansa)

"Is this one yours? What a darling!"

Sansa was uncomfortable – she had no wish at all to talk to the creepy, ugly younger brother of the Queen. She wanted to go and talk to Joffrey, if it was possible. At the very thought of it her heart beat faster.

But all rules of propriety demanded what she eventually did. She sat on a stump, smiled and said:

"Yes, my lord, she's called Lady. She's the prettiest of the litter, isn't she?"

"And the nicest," the dwarf meaningfully glanced at the other direwolves, huddled in a corner and giving the intruder suspicious looks.

He scratched the pup behind her ear, like a cat, and Lady sniffed softly, nestling her silvery muzzle against his red coat.

"I'll later tell my grandchildren," Tyrion announced. Then he critically looked himself up and down, scratched his head and corrected himself:

"Or really, what grandchildren, where would they come from? I'll tell my great-nephews, your children with Joffrey. How I was personally sitting on a hillock, and a real, incredibly ferocious direwolf... er... slobbered all over my sleeve."

Sansa laughed, and Lady ran to her and licked her hand as well.

"Incredibly ferocious! What a thing to say, my lord!"

"You bet! And with teeth like this, the size of myself," Tyrion went on shamelessly with his true story, showing the size of the "ferocious direwolf"'s teeth. "And she was as large as a house."

"Lady Sansa!" they heard the eldest prince's voice. Sansa, pink with joy, quickly wiped her hand (on Lady's fur), stood up and curtseyed.

"I think you'll be more interested to have a walk with me rather than bore yourself with my uncle and these wild beasts," Joffrey said smugly, coming into the yard.

Lady recoiled and whined. The other direwolf pups growled. Joffrey gave a start, scowled, but offered his arm to Sansa.

After some hesitation (she wasn't sure why herself), Sansa politely excused herself to Lord Tyrion and followed the prince.

* * *

The first moment after they told her the news, Sansa's heart sank with terror. She had prepared to leave this cursed city, to become a part of the kind and friendly Tyrell family... and now... Everything, all dreams, all hopes crashed down at once.

But then she suddenly remembered Winterfell, that morning soon after the King's arrival... How Lady snuggled up to Lord Tyrion and how she then shrank back from Joffrey.

 _She knew... guessed? Felt?_ Sansa had read and heard many fairytales and legends about direwolves, and sometimes they attributed almost supernatural knowledge to the creatures.

Her memory helpfully came up with more recent past: Tyrion's words of pity just after his arrival in the capital, the way he stood up for her, stopped the horrible humiliation, wasn't afraid to show the vile King his place...

Lost in her thoughts, Sansa didn't notice it as the groom himself came to her, and she hardly heard what he was saying:

"...my cousin Lancel... Perhaps you would prefer that. He is younger than I am, and fairer to look upon."

What? Lancel? That scrawny groveling young fool?

"Oh, no, my lord!" she cried. "Forgive me, I was just distracted. I will be happy, very happy to marry you!"

Her voice trembled. Tyrion's eyes grew round – he could see her honesty, and such an outburst coming from his bride simply astonished him. Joffrey, who was to give her away, faltered, seeing that this wouldn't be the planned mockery of the hated traitor's daughter.

* * *

"Still, my little fox, why have you married me so gladly?" Tyrion asked one evening.

"I've asked you many times not to call me that," she pretended to pout.

"Why not? You're a little fox and you have your red tail," he stroked her hair, already loose for the bed. "And your eyes are awfully sly. And you shirk answering my questions."

"I'm not shirking! It was all thanks to poor Lady. My direwolf, remember? She liked you."

"Aye, I've read all these stories about northern wargs, and now I begin to think there's some grain of truth in them. Maybe I should get a lion cub and ask for its advice too?" Tyrion said dreamily. 

"Tyrion, I'm serious! When the Queen announced I was to be your wife, I remembered how you petted Lady back at Winterfell and how she was frightened of Joffrey..."

"I remember it, my love, I remember it perfectly. Your direwolf was such a delight – with such pretty silver fur, so friendly... It's a pity I hadn't gone south with you then, I wouldn't have allowed anyone to lay a finger on her."

Sansa sadly nodded and sighed. The memory of Lady, despite everything she had been through and the much heavier losses, was sore in her heart.

"But if you hadn't gone to the Wall and made friends with Jon, I would never in my life have proved to Robb and Mother that I'm happy with you and that I don't want to be rescued from you."

It was true: for a long time Robb and Lady Catelyn hadn't believed her letters where she wrote how kind and loving her husband was and that she didn't want another. Thankfully, Jon Snow learned of what had happened, wrote to Robb as well and told him that wedding to Tyrion wasn't the worst that could have happened to their sister. Then the King in the North had to believe Sansa after all.

"How about going to the Rock at last when this madness is over?" indeed, what was going on in the capital was nothing short of madness. After Daenerys Targaryen seized power, she saw that, first, nobody loved her, second, her Essosi subjects weren't happy with the cold and the foreign lands, third, she wasn't happy with all of it either. She had been Queen for mere months when she decided to return to that Meereen of hers and was now in the midst of an endless parley with Tommen (read: Margaery Tyrell) as to who would obey whom and to what extent if she left the Iron Throne to him.

"Listen, what if we don't wait and leave, say, right tomorrow in the morning?" Sansa exclaimed. "These _pleasantries_ , I think, won't be over till next winter! Especially since Robb speaks for the Starks anyway, and Lord Tywin doesn't let you say a word during negotiations – aren't we sick of all that?"

"We are!" Tyrion beamed. "Well, little fox, pack your things. We're moving to the Rock, and all three dragons of Daenerys won't stop us!"

Sansa squealed and instantly hurried to her traveling trunk for clothes.

* * *

"Once upon a time, when your grandma was very small and I was very young..."

"And small?" the five-year-old Germont, future Lord of Casterly Rock, asked pedantically. His three-year-old brother Lyman, who had a good chance of getting Winterfell and the North because Robb only had daughters, didn't ask anything but listened with an open mouth. 

"Aye," his grandfather didn't argue. "I was about half your size. Well... in these times, your grandma had a huge, ferocious, almost unruly she-direwolf with enormous teeth, and the size of the keep in King's Landing herself..."

 


	14. Thorns and Claws (Tywin/Olenna)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the depiction of Margaret Beaufort's third marriage in Philippa Gregory's "The Red Queen".

"Have I understood you correctly? Are you offering me your hand?"

"Why not? We are both widowed, so I can't see any setbacks for marriage."

"Doesn't it unsettle you that your grandson is of my son's age?"

"Oh, so he's  _your_ son after all!" the woman raised her eyebrows with the keenest interest. Small and plump, she almost managed to look down on the man, even though he was nearly a foot taller. "I've heard that you don't want to know him."

The man gritted his teeth: it was a painful subject.

"My lady, had I been interested in marrying you, I would have told you _myself_."

"I think you simply haven't thought of it. That's why I decided to enlighten you."

"It was very nice of you, but I don't need another wife after Lady Joanna's death."

"Same with me! I already have a son, I'd be glad if I could manage him properly, after I regrettably spared the rod in my youth. I had a husband, good-hearted and gentle but brainless, well, whatever, not everyone is born smart. I don't want anyone  _like him_ , why change one trouble for another? No, now I need a heartless one but with good brains. That's why I chose you."

For a few moments there was silence. Tywin Lannister digested what he had just heard.

"Do you know that if you were a commoner, I would have at the very least cut out your tongue?" he finally said. "And that if you were a man, I'd have challenged you for a fight?"

"But I'm a born Redwyne and a woman," Olenna Tyrell nodded, unfazed. "Well, my lord, will you think over my proposition?"

Lord Tywin gave a short laugh. The guards at the doors, as they heard it, bolted upright and forgot how to breathe, the cupbearer serving at the table almost poured the wine into the fruit vase, and Lady Olenna's two pages paled and reflexively stepped back.

While Lady Olenna's eyes lit up and her face broke into a triumphant smile.

"We don't love each other, and it's great, because love makes you foolish," she said. "But I think you'll agree that the alliance of our families isn't the worst idea, is it?"

"Right, Lady Olenna. But why is it you who should cement it? You have a grandson and I have a daughter, only seven years older than him..."

"Whom you want to marry Prince Rhaegar practically since her birth. My little Willas is too low for you. Besides, there's still a long way to go even until your Cersei flowers, and since the King's mind isn't getting better, on the contrary, it's getting more unruly with every month, the Great Houses must stand together now."

"Aren't you afraid of talking this way about the King to his own Hand?" of course, Tywin's relations with his former childhood friend had grown considerably colder ever since the wedding of Tywin and Joanna, but it didn't mean that everyone could openly speak of Aerys with such impertinence.

"One of the advantages of a poor widow's life: nobody notices what she's mumbling," Olenna squeaked in a deliberately pathetic little voice.

"But Lady Lannister can't look like a market-woman with a long tongue."

"So you accept!" she cried immediately.

"No other lady would have turned a deaf ear to 'market-woman'," Tywin noted.

"Well, I did call you heartless. You wouldn't have been yourself if you hadn't repaid me."

* * *

"Oh, of all the beauties of the Reach, he had to choose her!" some drunk squire mockingly lamented on the wedding. "A rose without thorns would have been nice, but this one is thorns without a rose!"

"But thorns last longer than some fragile flowers," Tywin said coldly and gave the culprit a long piercing stare. The squire, sobering up at once, crawled off his chair and quietly edged towards the doors.

"And they match well with lion's claws," Olenna joined in. "Speaking of which, maybe the musicians will play us  _The Rains of Castamere_?"

"Mother!" Mace Tyrell pleaded. He wanted to melt into the ground as it was: as if his mother's sharp tongue and occasional brutal frankness weren't enough, now he had Lord Lannister for a stepfather. "It's a wedding!"

"You don't say! Here I was, thinking I put on the red-and-gold cloak as a joke. So it was a wedding, then... And you have to comply with the bride's wishes. I want to listen to  _The Rains_."

Having thoroughly delighted in the terrified expressions of each and every guest, Olenna exchanged glances with her husband and relented:

"Fine, that was a jest. You have to obey a maiden bride, and I'm marrying for the second time, it's not proper to have any whims. Listen to what you like, what can one expect of you..."

The bedding was formally carried out, but really very few wished to take part in the ceremony. Tywin was approached only by Lady Genna, who unfastened his doublet with gusto but didn't dare to do anything else, and, clearly only for order's sake, Lady Dorna, who wavered and stood back. Kevan Lannister, meanwhile, was the only one who was brave enough to attack Lady Olenna, joking and chaffing.

"Weaklings," Olenna scoffed in the direction of the other men, who chuckled, embarrassed, but didn't come near. "Scared of one gentle woman!"

"Well, what would you like, you've heard yourself that the Queen of Thorns doesn't frightened only those who have claws themselves," Kevan laughed. 

"As long as these claws don't wear down," Olenna replied with understanding. "All right, I think here's the bedroom. Stop tearing off my dress, I'm not a birch. I do hate beddings, but today the crowd was at least smaller than the last time."

* * *

Tywin Lannister came into the room, thought a bit and said:

"Some people said their hands are full with their existing son."

"Thank you, Tywin, for the heartfelt congratulations on the birth of our child and for all the good wishes. Besides, some people said they didn't want female love in the first place, so these people should now better stay quiet."

"Golden-haired, green-eyed, our stock," Tywin commented proudly, looking at the baby.

"I like brown hair and brown eyes better, but looks isn't the most important thing  _at all_ ," Olenna said meaningfully, pausing from time to time to coo over little Gilbert in a completely un-Queen-of-the-Thorns manner. "I hope you've told the children?" Willas was presently a guest at Casterly Rock, and he was quick to become close friends with Tyrion.

"Certainly. They're already eager to look at him."

"Why haven't you let them?"

"Because it's improper."

"What's all this about? Whoever decided it? The poor things must be agog with curiosity – I've heard them discussing if there truly is a child in my belly. They decided I've made it up. Tyrion was sure that their future brother is hidden in a trunk, and Willas – that he'll hatch out of my canary's egg."

Olenna's belly had indeed been quite average-sized up to the last moment; considering that her moon blood already came irregularly due to her age and her figure had always been rather rounded, both Tywin and even she managed not to notice a thing until the baby was so grown it started to kick.

"So please let the kids visit me," she concluded now, cradling Gilbert.

"You can barely keep your eyes open," Tywin said sternly. "Let them come later when you're rested."

"Thanks for you care," retorted Olenna. "Of course, you yourself bring nothing but peace and calm."

"If you wanted a husband who brings peace and calm, you'd have chosen a green boy from your Reach."

Olenna chuckled and pinched Gilbert's cheek:

"There, child, do you hear? That's an example of married life for you."

And, who'd have doubted, Tywin rigidly corrected her:

"An example of an alliance of two Houses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case the baby's normal-looking name confuses you :) Gilbert of the Vines was a son of Garth Greenhand and the founder of House Redwyne, and as the name starts with "G" it fits a Lannister child as well.


	15. Pictures of a Feast in the Red Keep (Viserys/Margaery; Oberyn/Cersei)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written close to New Year's Eve, so there'll hardly be anything serious.
> 
> It takes place in the same world as "Thorns and Claws".

**Don't tickle the sleeping dragon**

"Oh, please, Gil's my relative!" Margaery was shocked at another fit of her betrothed's jealousy. But then she realized:

"Ah, I see. For you Valyrians it's even worse. Fine, I simply swear on the Tyrells' honor: there's nothing between me and him."

The melodious voice and the bright look of the girl's shining brown eyes could convince anyone of anything, and Prince Viserys certainly couldn't resist his betrothed at all, which she knew and sometimes used to her advantage. Now, however, she was saying nothing but the truth: for young Ser Gilbert Lannister, her father's half-brother, she felt nothing warmer than family love.

"I'm sorry, Margaery."

She pouted.

"Please forgive me."

Margaery turned away and gazed at a tapestry with the Targaryen sigil.

"Please."

She walked to one of the tables, gracefully took a piece of sweet pork pie and began to eat.

"Margaery, for the sake of the celebration!" Viserys begged. Finishing the pie and blotting her lips with a serviette, she took pity on him:

"All right. But it will be the last time! I'm tired of that mysterious dragon of yours that for some reason seems to wake every time I even talk to another man."

Viserys sighed:

"Forgive me, I truly regret it myself. I'd have loved to be as calm as him over there!"

The prince nodded towards those who for the past two years had been the most beautiful, cheerful and harmonious couple of the Seven Kingdoms. The curly-haired, broad-shouldered Renly Baratheon had just stopped dancing with his wife, the small and seemingly (only seemingly!) fragile Lady Lyanna, and the latter was instantly scooped up by his brother Robert ("We were betrothed for several months!"). Renly made some friendly joke – from over here they couldn't hear it, but both Robert and Lyanna burst into laughter.

"If only I had been like him, but I'm the blood of the dragon..." Viserys said guiltily.

To his surprise, Margaery decisively shook her head:

"No, you don't need to be like Ser Renly!"

"Why?"

Thinking it over, she triumphantly said:

"It's boring when nobody's jealous of you! Fine, even your waking dragon is better! Let's go dance!"

The happy Viserys took her by the waist, and Margaery laughed merrily.

* * *

**The Octopuses**

"Aren't they sweeeet?" little Celia Lannister asked gleefully.

The octopuses were crawling on the bottom of a huge bucket full of water.

"Charming!"

Celia jerked up and then looked at her companions with a mix of respect and disappointment:

"Oh, why is no one scared of them?"

Princess Cersei Martell, guessing the plan of her little niece, chuckled:

"I wasn't scared of lions either. And of vipers," she cast a meaningful look at her husband. He also sat on the terrace, afraid that Cersei would be bored alone. She hadn't been in the capital for ages and knew almost nobody there.

"She is afraid of snakes, in fact," Oberyn told Celia confidentially. "She's just hiding it."

"And Mother always says that if you're hiding your fear it's even better than not fearing at all," the girl explained importantly.

"There, Oberyn!" Cersei cried victoriously. "I'm trying to prove it to you for years. Oh, Lady Asha is a clever woman."

"Mother gave me the octopuses. She had a sigil like that before she married Father," Celia said and sourly added:

"Only nobody began to fear them. Neither Father, nor Uncle Gil, not even Grandma and Grandfather..."

Oberyn and Cersei vividly imagined a scene "Trying to Frighten Tywin and Olenna Lannister with Five Little Octopuses". Celia shot them a vexed look as they nearly rolled with laughter.

"Dear girl, I'd have been more amazed if someone  _was_ afraid," Cersei said as she wiped off the tears.

"If you want to really impress somebody, these cheap tricks like animal sigils won't help you..." Oberyn began.

"Says the man who styles himself the Red Viper."

"I was called so for my talents and looks, not because I, like somebody, was simply lucky with my coat of arms!"

"No hints like that, please!" Cersei said haughtily and tried to look majestic. With a piece of blackberry tart in one hand and a big belly, it wasn't a success. "I'm a lioness!"

"You only have the mane!"

"And you have a stinger for your tongue!"

"I'm proud of it!"

In a couple of minutes (as she thought) Cersei looked around in surprise:

"But where's Celia?"

Celia had long run into the garden and was now showing the octopuses to the younger Mormont girls. Lyra and Lyanna gushed with delight and cooed.


	16. The Unsaid Confessions (Emmon/Genna)

"My dear wife! I'm so glad we've left that Riverrun after all and came to your native Rock! You're wonderful, and I love you more than anyone in this world! You know, your emerald green eyes are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. That's why I suggest we hold a feast to celebrate the beginning of spring and our wedding anniversary!"

Emmon Frey finished his speech by grandly sweeping his arm out towards an empty armchair. Then he thought for a while and shook his head:

"No. Too short. Ahem! Ahemm! Dear Genna, I'm so unbelievably happy that thanks to your remarkable..."

"What?" _she_ peeked into the room. The light of his soul, the loveliest sight ever (she looked rather like a bun, such as his favorite one with nuts and raisins!), his golden-haired wife.

Emmon breathed in deep...

"Are you planning to swim underwater or what? I've heard you calling me – what's the matter?"

Emmon deflated like a sail in calm air.

"I thought, my dear, that we could hold a feast," he mumbled. He had no chance to say about the wedding anniversary.

"A feast?! Do you even think how much this war has cost us?" Genna towered over him, and he thought with admiration that she resembled a huge warring battleship. "Do you think of our mines that are growing depleted, and we don't have enough men to search for new ones? Do you ever think of anything?"

"No-o," Emmon blurted out.

"I can see that!"

"Er... Genna, I wanted to say..." he tried again.

"What now?"

"Say... say... that..."

Genna leaned on the table, looking at him impatiently. Her curls shone reddish in the light of the hearth.

"Say... that... I'm going to call for dinner," he gave up.

"Excellent," Genna said graciously. She liked eating no less than he did.

At dinner, hoping to gain some courage from the wine, Emmon attempted it for the last time:

"Genna. Hm. I have long wanted to say, that... eh... I passionately l-love..."

She raised her fair eyebrows, showing she was ready to listen to the end. Emmon fidgeted.

"Love... mutton," he finished moodily, huddled up and hid his nose in his goblet. Genna rolled her eyes.

 _A weakling! He's hopeless!_ she thought.

 _When will I finally tell her how amazing she is?_ he writhed.  _Forty years, for forty years we've been married, and every day is like this!_

He accidentally pushed off the salad plate with his elbow. Genna let out an exasperated sigh and sent for a servant.

"Look what's in front of you on the table! You're still, still behaving like an infant! How did they educate you at the Twins? If they did at all!"

Emmon thought how gorgeous she was when she was angry...


	17. The Iron Price (Balon/Maege)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU. Alannys Harlaw died during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

“No more words! Bear Island belongs to the North!”

“Now it’s vassal to the Iron Islands!”

“My daughter inherited my lands. Just because I obeyed Lord Stark and came here doesn’t mean I’m going to surrender my lands too! It wasn’t written anywhere in the agreement!”

“Your agreements mean nothing! We only pay the iron price!”

“Ha, then what are we talking about? You didn’t even dock at Bear Island!”

Metal clinked. The sword crossed with the spiked mace, and their owners stared at each other, frowning. As they heard the noise, several guards peeked into the hall, just in case, but they instantly bowed their heads with respect and closed the door. It wouldn't be wise to intrude on their rulers without good reasons.

"I insist we need more wood."

"I insist you do not. You have more than enough ships. And be sure I will not allow you to cut the trees of Bear Island."

"Why do  _you_ need them?"

"Haven't they invented such a thing as firewood around here? Winter is coming, as the Starks say, and we can't waste wood! It's not just for us, it's for the other Northerners as well – in case of anything Lord Eddard's counting on us!"

"If he's counting on you so much, he should have kept you on your precious island! He certainly lacks foresight!"

"Don't you dare insult the Wardens of the North!"

The air was buzzing again as the sword and the mace swung against each other.

Asha Greyjoy, who was sitting in the next room with a map and planning the  _Black Wind_ 's next voyage, smiled absentmindedly, listening to the shouts and noise coming from the hall. She remembered how, when Lord Eddard suggested a marriage between Maege Mormont and Balon Greyjoy as one of the pledges of peace after the Rebellion, even the most loyal subjects of the Starks began to think their sovereign must have bumped his head on a weirwood tree. The passionate mutual hatred between the bears and the krakens was well-known, and its roots had sprung centuries ago, and it was clear it wouldn't be softened by some peace treaty.

Both the groom and the bride played for time for about four years. First Maege had another daughter born to her by an unknown father, then Balon got sick with a cough, then Bear Island ran out of money... But one day Lord Eddard reminded Maege that she always swore to be devoted to her feudal lords, and Balon – that only after signing that agreement he had been spared.

The most surprising thing was how well everything turned out in the end. Balon had been thin and sickly after the deaths of his first wife and sons and the Rebellion's failure, but after marrying Maege he seemed to get ten years younger, even his wrinkles were almost gone. Maege, too, even though she hadn't been particularly depressed before, now practically bloomed. How it happened was still a mystery, especially since the couple spent their time trying to defeat each other in combat or out-stubborn one another in an argument.

Asha was very happy – apart from a wonderful stepmother, she got four younger sisters; from Maege's daughters, only Dacey Mormont, being the heir, stayed in the North. All four, fierce and wild like their mother, became fast friends with Asha, and Alysane, Jorelle and Lyra loved to explore the  _Black Wind_ and begged her to take them with her on a voyage. Lyanna, the smallest, admired the ship from a distance for now.

"The Starks have been pulling your strings all your life!" it wasn't getting quieter in the hall, but the question of woodcutting, which had been apparently the whole reason for the discussion, seemed to have been put off.

"Well, have  _you_ been good as a king? You upstart and failure!" 

"You accuse me of being an upstart? You only have one tiny destitute island, and you have the vanity of a royal!"

"Balon, why do I still suffer you?!"

"You better explain why  _I_ put up with  _you_!"

_Because we're astonishingly similar in being proud, stubborn and headstrong. Because we have such amazing training fights, and our daughters are thick as thieves. Because for some reason we love cold, poor islands in a half-frozen northern sea. Because we hate admitting to our hidden feelings._

"Why are you staring at the ceiling?"

"Balon, and why are you staring at the fireplace?"

"I'm thinking."

"Me too."

_It seems we're thinking about the same thing. Maybe some time later I'll admit it. But not now. Not now, when we have so much to do, and Asha's sitting in the next room! I'll wager she's eavesdropping! I should tell her to stop setting us up with each other when we're long married already._

Balon Greyjoy and Maege Mormont were standing in one of the halls of Pyke – he was by the fireplace and she by the door – and shot suspicious glances at each other. At one point Balon stepped towards his wife, as if wishing to say something, but then he heard rustling of a paper and Asha's murmurs and stopped.

"So!" said Maege with new strength after the pause. "We still haven't decided about the wood!"


End file.
